


Bitches Broken Hearts

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, BAMF Margaery Tyrell, Bisexual Daenerys Targaryen, Bisexual Margaery Tyrell, Businessmen, Canon Bisexual Character, Coffee Shops, F/F, angry cersei as always, except actually restaurant, lawyer drogon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: i simp so hard for dany its not even funnyplease step on me white hair dragon mommy
Relationships: Daenerys Targaryen/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Bitches Broken Hearts

Margaery flits among customers, breaking hearts as she goes. It’s a game for her, to watch people fall for her beauty in a moment’s blink and then be gone in the next.

It’s Friday night and she’s out to play.

She’s wearing the server’s uniform, professional and conservative, but she knows the exact angle to tilt her head where the lines of her neck will graze the sultry lighting and her jaw will glimmer like chiseled marble. She can paint her tightly curled hair into a forest of shimmering copper and gold, bring out the vivid green and gold in her eyes. Her skin is russet and gold and bronze- whatever the candlelight chooses. Margaery loves how she can make peoples’ hearts race and their hands go clammy with nervous sweat.

The slow, jazzy band in the back only adds to her halo. She sees the eyes of a middle aged businessman go wide, a sliver of white under his iris. She graces him with a smirk and moves on.

The doors open, and a party of four arrive. One woman and three younger men, from the looks of it.

Margaery smiles and steps towards them.

The first thing she notices is platinum hair like silk done in braids on the woman’s head. Her hair is striking, and Margaery is almost entranced by how it shimmers under the light, like clouds spun into hair.

The woman is wearing a stunning coat. Margaery is almost breathless from want. She’ll have to ask for the designer.

She watches the woman turn. The three men- no, boys- follow like little ducklings.

The tallest has the darkest hair Margaery’s ever seen, so black that it has a sheen almost like cracked obsidian.

The usher guides them to a table, and Margaery’s back in her element, no matter how intriguing or beautiful the new customers are. She’s seen plenty of beauties, besides.

She takes four menus embroidered with gold roses to the table and greets them.

Up close, the woman is even more stunning. Her hair looks naturally blonde, or else she has a miracle- worker for a hairdresser. Her skin is pale, almost albino, and so are her slightly tinged eyes.

Margaery feels like she’s in the presence of an otherworldly creature. It’s unnerving, but she can’t stop looking at the brush of the low light glowing against the woman’s impossibly pale skin.

“Hello! Here’s the menu. I’ll be serving you today. Please feel free to call for whatever you want,” Margaery announces, as per usual. The woman lifts her eyes up to stare directly into Margaery’s, which is unusual but Margaery’s seen plenty of that in business dealings, so she smiles professionally back.

Surprisingly, the woman actually returns a warm, genuine smile. “Thank you. We’ll call when we’re ready to order.”

Margaery watches the intruiging strangers closely.

The shortest boy is on his phone, cream blond hair flopping over his eyes and face. The woman sighs and reaches across the table to ruffle his hair. “Viserion, pay attention,” she scolds, like a mother.

The boy slouches even further and raises his pale brown eyes. “Yes, mother,” he mutters, irritation pricking at his voice.

The bronze haired boy rolls his eyes. “What are we even paying attention to?”

The tallest flicks at his cheek. “Rhaegal stop being such a brat.” His black hair is impeccably groomed, and his wine-red button up is striking under the black blazer.

“Momma’s boy,” Rhaegal snarls back quietly.

The tallest boy’s eyes flicker dangerously. “Rhaegal, I will take away your share of bacon tomorrow morning if you keep being rude.”

The woman laughs, full throated and surprisingly deep. “Drogon, it’s alright. Now you all know the plan, right?”

Viserion slouches even further, impossibly. “ _Yes, mother_.”

“Good,” their strangely young mother replies. “I assume you’ve all done your homework?”

“Of course, mother,” Drogon assures. “I made sure of it.”

Rhaegal snorts and not so subtly elbows Drogon in the side of his perfectly straightened blazer. Margaery lets a small, amused smile slip.

She tunes them out a little as they decide on their orders, and speculates on the brand of the mother’s coat. Gucci is possible, but the fur indicates Fendi. The cut might be Valentino. It’s unique enough that she can’t quite get a read on it.

Clearly the woman is well off, and influential enough that she could get something that exclusive. Margaery squints at the woman. The platinum blonde and the eyes remind her of something, but she can’t put it into words.

The woman abruptly turns around and gestures at her. Margaery puts on a cool smile and strides over to their table.

“So what can I get you?” The woman flawlessly rattles off an impressively long list of items from their menu, her accent impeccable. “Cold water for all of us,” she adds at the end.

Margaery nods and smiles at everyone around the table. “We’ll be here soon.” She glides off to the kitchens to announce the new orders. When she comes back it’s with cold water, which she places on the spot before each of them.

Drogon nods curtly back. The other two boys are still slouched and on their phones under the table. The mother’s eyes crinkle at the edges as she smiles. “Good to meet you at last, Margaery Tyell.”

Margaery gives her that cool, distant smile again. “And you… ?”

“How rude of me!” The woman laughs that full, deep laugh again. It raises warmth in Margaery’s gut. “My name is Daenerys Targaryen.”

It is with great strength of will that Margaery doesn’t freeze, or flinch. “Ms. Targaryen. As beautiful as the rumors say,” she compliments with a small, strange smile.

Daenerys Targaryen, who’s said to be well on her way to be taking back control of the Westeros mega conglomerate. Who took over Meereen Inc in a matter of days.

Daenerys Targaryen, who Cersei Lannister speaks of with such vitriol. Who Olenna sends letters to, occasionally.

“My grandmother is in contact with you, yes?” Margaery sounds the words out cautiously. She doesn’t want to go.

“Yes,” Daenerys’s eyes ice over, but she keeps the smile. “The queen of thorns, yes? Your grandmother is an interesting person. I enjoy her company and conversation.” Her voice is brimming wildfire threatning to spill. Drogon watches her with narrow strangely blood red eyes.

“She is indeed,” Margaery knows, of course, the general goal of Olenna’s correspondence with the Mother of Dragons. She looks sideways at Daenerys’s children, which makes the woman lose her smile.

“Your manners are much better than your grandmother’s, it seems,” Daenerys says playfully, but her eyes are dismissive.

Margaery smiles, but she already knows what Olenna must have wanted her to do. She goes to the kitchen to retrieve their orders.

When she comes back, she is queen Margaery, Joffrey Baratheon’s former betrothed, elegant and coy and most importantly, irresistible. _Dragons are passionate_ , Olenna once told her, with that glint in her eyes. Margaery is blushing petals in a poem and sunlight on acres of gold wheat when she comes back to Daenerys bearing her trays.

Daenerys is, as Margaery finds out, a true dragon.

Her eyes light, burning and full with something like lust. Daenerys’s pale eyes burn with paler fire as she watches how Margaery exposes the long line of her throat, the nook between her collarbones and her neck, the shifting of her shoulders. She tucks her hair into a ponytail to better expose the trim of her figure, the cut of her waist. Daenerys nibbles at her food and watches her with hooded eyes while her three children devour everything in front of them.

As the plates empty, Margaery brings them the bill.

Daenerys lays a light hand on her wrist, questioning and easy to shake off. Margaery does not shake it off.

Drogon smirks. “We’ll wait for you at home, mother.” Rhaegal and Viserion give her eerily matching glares and follow their brother out the door. Margaery imagines she can hear the flap of dragonwings shredding the night sky.

“Come with me?” Daenerys asks, gently but firmly.

Margaery smiles sweetly and says, “Of course… your Grace.” Daenerys’s eyes blaze as she tucks a hand on Margaery’s back.

Margaery takes a moment to gather her coat. Daenerys takes her to a sleek, unbranded car unlike any other Margaery’s ever seen. The outside looks normal enough, almost like a black Toyota, but inside it is unmistakably customized. She slips into the shotgun seat, and waits for Daenerys to start the engine.

The sky is vividly bruised purple and ripe red as they drive past. Daenerys is staying at a Four Seasons hotel. She parks her car somewhere below the hotel, which Margaery notes, just as she notes the extra space built into the car, presumably for her childrens’ wings. The remains of something scorched lies in Daenerys’s cup holder. Margaery is nothing if not attentive.

Daenerys leads her up to the highest floor, where all is quiet. Margaery recognizes the penthouse, which is a full floor. Daenerys swipes in, and locks the door. The white coat goes across an armchair, heels high enough to kill shed sloppily by the wall. Margaery takes off her shoes, too, and lines up Daenerys’s. Daenerys watches her with some amusement while stripping off her sweater.

She wears only a tank top beneath, silky and dark maroon. Margaery watches how the red settles against Daenerys’s snow-skin like wine or blood on ice.

“Margaery Tyrell,” Daenerys breaths, and switches the lights lower, to half brightness. It’s bright enough to make out where everything is, and no brighter. The darkness painting Daenerys in broad strokes of silver and black makes something low curl in Margaery’s gut.

“Daenerys Targaryen,” Margaery dares, and steps closer. Her voice may be sweet, but she is not afraid of a dragon. Daenerys grins, a quick flash of teeth and red in the light, and falls upon her like feasting.

Daenerys makes quick work of her jacket and blouse, all the while guiding them to the bedroom. Margaery moans, half because Daenerys is a skilled player on a woman’s body and half because she knows the high, almost-wrecked sound makes Daenerys growl, a beautiful fierce sound.

Daenerys presses her down on the bed, wrists gently flush against the smooth soft sheets.

“May I?” And the question is soft and sweet on Daenerys’s lips.

“Yes,” Margaery says, and climbs onto the bed, inviting and half- bared.

Margaery almost sinks into it, and drowns deeper when Daenerys climbs on top of her and presses kisses to the curve of her breasts, the edge of her collarbones. Daenerys’s lips are smooth and cold, but her body is warmer than Margaery’s. She hears the sound of clothes rustling and a clasp coming loose. Margaery peels her pants and underwear off herself and tosses them off the bed.

It’s an efficient choice, as Daenerys comes back to devour her breasts a heartbeat later. Margaery palms Daenerys’s nipples and savors the snarl that she makes. Daenerys retaliates by trailing kisses down Margaery’s stomach and down to the junction of her thighs- but not quite there. Margaery curses, a dirty, classless word in the dark of Daenerys’s bedroom.

“May I?”

Margaery laughs, and this time it’s more genuine and less sweet than any she’s given a bedmate before.

“Yes,” she says, again.

Daenerys laughs against her inner thigh, a wicked smile curling her lips against Margaery’s skin. Margaery moans, almost completely genuine this time. Daenerys parts her thighs like a god splitting the world open, and noses at her folds. Margaery whines, high and trembling. Her hand is firm on Daenerys’s hair. Somehow the braids have not come loose yet. Margaery sits up suddenly, dislodging Daenerys who looks up with burning, displeased eyes.

Margaery lets her hair tumble down from its ponytail and it’s tangled and not quite perfect as always, but she knows how the rose and cold frost scent of it will carry directly into Daenerys’s nose. Daenerys gasps a laugh and rises to unbraid her hair. The white silk lies like a curtain fluttering against her equally white skin. Daenerys smells like vanilla and mint when her hair tickles Margaery’s fingers. Margaery runs a hand across Daenerys’s scalp, massaging and gentling.

Daenerys purrs, a low pleased laugh in the depths of her throat, and pins Margaery down again. Daenerys’s fingers are surprisingly calloused against the edge of her folds. Margaery holds back a shiver. Her hair springs out, wild as vines curling up russet bricks, against the white and cream sheets. Daenerys slides up her body, sparking friction in every inch of her side as she noses at Margaery’s hair.

Margaery grabs a handful of silk and pushes Daenerys _down_.

“So impatient, darling,” Daenerys breaths against where her stomach met her ribs. Then, she finally moves down, and Margaery gasps.

Daenerys teases her in all the right spots, touches her everywhere she aches, fills her empty spots with finger and tongue and pleasure. She licks at Margaery’s cunt like she wants Margaery to love her, all the aggression of wildfires devouring forests and all the gentleness of a crackling fireplace in cold stone buildings. Margaery is consumed, utterly, by the flames, and blooms again in the aftermath as Daenerys cradles her hips like she’s gold.

Margaery’s voice is hoarse when she sits up again, her thighs wet and shaky. But she still grabs the mother of dragons by her (toned) biceps and flips them around, and this time she goes achingly slow down Daenerys’s body, and this time it’s Daenerys’s turn to moan and scream and snarl. If Daenerys devours her, Margaery marks Daenerys, slow and sweet and a _promise_ creeping its way into Daenerys’s body in sticky-sweet trails. Something like desperation rings in Daenerys’s groans when she tongues at her clit, all soft and loving.

Margaery is a master at her instrument, and her fingers strum Daenerys’s clit and slips inside, curves and scrapes. She finds the places that make Daenerys whine, where Daenerys growls like something inhuman. Some places get quiet, tame groans, but when she presses against another in tandem the sounds Daenerys makes are sweet and high.

Daenerys sits up when they’re done, and slings Margaery across her lean, muscled thighs. She mouths against Margaery’s neck, whispering sweet promises and filthy threats into the lines between her tendons. Margaery gives as good as she gets. For one bruise sucked onto her neck she bites at Daenerys’s jaw, and for every bite on her shoulder she licks a stripe across a particularly sensitive spot on Daenerys’s throat. They tumble back together, backs against the sheets but only feeling the warmth of another body. Daenerys’s white silk gets lost in the forest of her thick dark hair, and she feels herself bloom and die at the coaxing of Daenerys’s cool winter lips.

Margaery sits on top of Daenerys, pushes past her weak knees and thighs and pulls another climax out of herself. Daenerys returns the favor, and Margaery swallows the music of her orgasm like fine wine.

Finally, they lie back, all quiet laughs and sated sighs. Daenerys leaves for a moment to get a damp towel, and peels the dirty sheets off the bed.

Margaery doesn’t see herself saying _I love you_ in truth, but she thinks she could say it only half lying if it could get her this woman’s nights and Westeros. Daenerys cuddles as sweetly as she’s fierce in bed. Margaery tucks her chin on the crown of Daenerys’s head and closes her eyes. Her grandmother would be proud of her.

  
  


  
  


When Margaery wakes up next, Daenerys is gone, but the whiff of bacon and delicious breakfast greets her in the dining room. Next to it is a note penned in barely legible writing, hurried and scratchy.

_Thank you for the night, rose. See you next time. Here’s my number._

Below the note is a folded sweater and a skirt with her bra from last night.

Margaery smiles and tucks the slip of paper into her jacket, still thrown over the armchair. Daenerys’s things are gone, and it doesn’t look like she lives here at all. Margaery wonders if she booked the room just for last night, and laughs lowly at the thought.

Margaery showers, and throws out her waitress uniform from last night.

She dresses in the clothes Daenerys prepared for her, and notes the red dragons curling up the black sleeves. She could easily roll the sleeves up, but Margaery knows Daenerys’s game, brash and unsubtle as it is.

Margaery drapes her jacket over her shoulders and leaves the room, the plate of bacon only half finished.

  
  


  
  


Cersei Lannister is a _fucking_ bitch, Margaery thinks bitterly. She sits in custody. It’s the most discomfort she’s felt since she can remember. It irks her greatly, especially when Cersei Lannister comes marching through the door with her impeccably tailored gold and burgundy outfit.

It’s all she can do to not reach across the table and strangle Mrs. Lannister, especially when she tosses a strand of honey gold hair back, indifferent, and smiles innocently.

“You’re good at manipulating others, Mrs. Lannister,” Margaery nearly snarls, “but I’m afraid innocence isn’t a good look for you.”

Cersei just smiles mocking and pitying at her, and croons, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, my good daughter in law. But I do hope, for your grandmother’s sake and that _Targaryen_ ’s sake that these… nasty rumors of you aren’t true. Because if you… the innocent, beloved scion of the Tyrell Roses were to be found _embezzeling_ from _charities…_ oh, what a tragedy! Truly, daughter in law, I wish you the best of luck.”

Margaery’s heart twists into something savage. The worst part… Cersei’s right. If the charges are found to be true, her grandmother wouldn’t go down in flames, but they wouldn’t be able to challenge the Lannisters for a while.

She summons up that sweet cold smile of hers and is silent, but Cersei’s eyes are laughing. The golden bitch knows she’s won, so she breezes out of the room, uncaring.

Her grandmother visits her. “Margaery,” her old weary voice says, “we’ll burn these dirty lies off your record. I’m sure that when the ashes clear, we’ll see who was really behind it all.”

Fire.

Margaery smiles and clasps her hands loosely on the table. “Yes, grandmother.”

Daenerys Targaryen does not come to see her, but that’s alright. Margaery knows she won’t stay away.

But her knuckles are still white, and she can’t sleep that night. If the Tyrell Roses even weaken a little in this dance of theirs, the Lannisters will not hesitate to flood in like frozen water into cracking granite, and shatter them until they are little more than the regional managers of chain stores. In their eternal game there is no space for even the slightest sliver of vulnerable skin, because the crows will peck and peck until the skin splits open into bare flesh, then carve out their heart. Margaery can hardly breath.

If this destroys them, even Daenerys Targaryen may not be able to sway the tide of public opinion.

  
  


  
  


Her lawyer is Drogon, wings out, horns twisting up, tail lashing at the floor.

Margaery is taken aback. Surely her grandmother would not have chosen a nineteen year old lawyer, prodigy or not, to hinge Margaery’s fate upon?

But she has. Margaery’s fingers are numb.

The situation seems to be tilting in Cersei Lannister’s favor. The bitch’s eyes alight with glee at Margaery all the while her body language wails sorrow. Margaery holds back a vicious growl, and forces her hands into stiff, flat boards on her thighs. Her grandmother is unmoving and unreadable. Margaery’s heart is so cold it might shatter.

Then, an opening comes. The Lannister prosecutor slips. Drogon’s eyes, patient and cold as a glacier, blaze. His wings shift just the tiniest bit. From there, the tide turns so utterly Margaery is floored. She catches Daenerys’s eye up on the balcony. Daenerys looks down at her with absolute confidence, steel in her spine and the straight tendons of her neck. Margaery doesn’t risk a smile, but her gaze lingers just a moment before flashing back to the scene.

Drogon pulls apart the prosecutor twice his age, until the other man is close to snarling. Drogon saunters back to his seat as the case ends, and the Lannister prosecutor sits down hard.

She is unanimously acquitted. It is only then that she smiles, calmly, at Cersei.

Cersei smiles back, still mocking, but just a little more strained than before. When they file out of the courtroom, Cersei finds her. “Daughter in law. My darling Margaery. Finally, those terrible rumors are disproven, and you are the… _unblemished_ charitable angel we all thought you to be! Congratulations.”

“Yes. I am quite grateful that my name has finally been cleared. Of course, I’m no angel, only a human trying her best. But those lies were just unbelievably false, I wonder who would have fallen for them,” Margaery replies with twice Cersei’s saccharine sugar. Cersei has never been good at pretending to be loving and sweet. Mocking and smugly victorious are a much better look on her.

Cersei’s smile looks like sugar sprinkled on top of a burnt cake as she turns and prowls away.

Daenerys and Drogon finds her next. Drogon’s wings, half extended, trail behind him, forcing all the passerbys to stream past him.

“Thank you, Ms. Targaryen for your son’s help. The false accusations might have actually gone forward otherwise. Your son is a capable lawyer indeed.”

Drogon smirks, and his wings melt back into his human skin. It seems to be the only smile he’s capable of making. “No fuss, Ms. Tyrell. It was only the right thing to do, to defend an innocent against such hideous falsity.” Without waiting for her reply, he pointedly glances down at his watch and tells Daenerys, “Mother, I’ll be going now.”

Daenerys leans up to press a kiss onto his cheek. “You did well, Drogon. I am beyond proud of you.”

“That’s what you say every time,” Drogon teases, his smirk softening just a little. He turns to her, nods politely. When he walks past her, he smells like smoke and cool steel.

Daenerys steps toward her, intent in her eyes. Margaery smiles her most irresistible, charming smile, and watches Daenerys fall.

“Ms. Targaryen. How would you feel about going out for dinner, tonight?”

Daenerys smiles that smile that softens her entire face into something much younger than twenty eight. “It would be my pleasure to celebrate the destruction of whatever others might try to throw at us.” After a pause, she adds, “Call me Daenerys.”

“Margaery,” Margaery returns.

Daenerys Targaryen is smitten.

She brushes her shoulder against Daenerys's as they walk out of the building side by side.

**Author's Note:**

> idk why i wrote this  
> but it was probably to procrastinate on and my cup runneth over. I'll prob update by saturday. god i suck ass at schedules


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